Eventually One Dreams the Real Thing. Marianne Boruch
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or ledge, staring out and —
blink — down.
So be it
in the imperial age of the 21st century which seeks its shape
in the drone, the kind
put up to the killing, air-conditioned office turned bunker,
Nevada, home of the sand flea
whose life span is about two minutes the last
I checked though in truth,
I’ve never checked.
It’s not a matter of just knowing.
Or that maybe the virtual bombardier is weeping at night
and feels bad about it.
Truth told
unto us: a worm shape is not
the worm. A worm, merely born to it like
an apple to its red eventually,
or the sea to its vast floating crosshatch of garbage,
plastic bags and cups from the big boats
and every who-gives-a-good-damn cute little
coastal spot, used-once forks
going brittle, snapping, drifting out to join their
cheap brethren, shining semi-continent of crap never
to decode/de-evolve/delete
for a thousand years if then, detritus of our time.
This we, this our and us thing —
A remote sensing device, garden path to a dark
darkest wood in the middle, etc. Confusion
as part, part coward, part crash
burning to quiet there.
Recalculate, recalculate, says the grown-up
robo-voice in the car, you’ve driven past your turn.
The turn was: I want I want alights on
oblivious, mouth-sized. Somewhere = sobbing.
It’s spring! A thing with wings taking aim.
Long Ago into the Future
I get confused. So an acorn that
pretends itself for years into the giant oak
could nevertheless be windfall,
kaput. One night
does that. I’ve seen
clear evidence in the woods.
By the time the future hits, there will be a past
with our names all over it. Names
brought up from a distance
do have a solitary, universal ring to them: here lies
whoever and ever. Or whomever —
depending on how
the rest of the sentence goes, reversing fate,
subject to object not
seed anymore, not just-starting-out and maybe
that brave. The such
of such matters! The twilight way
it weeps or lucks somewhere to come
back there. Rooms,
various unveilings. To be so
infinitive about it — to spark, to hesitate,
all you want.
Divide
When elephants gather over a dead elephant
or crows above a crow ripped,
released by a hawk
or that cat online circling, lying down against
another cat still
so still — you’re dreaming this, aren’t you
bad dream? The room
shifts, the whole house stopped, one car
making its damaged
down-the-street a reverence.
When does grief become wonder?
To divide then, one part empty as the cocoon
a bagworm leaves on the stricken juniper
tight woven so beautiful
you’d never know its once-inside could
kill a thing this woody and pine-boughy and years
of its fragrance you walked by.
The other part —
all overflow get-rid-of-it,
grief unto wonder unto an offering
elephants bring huge in their delicate hovering,
their ridiculous tact, close
and closer, one cat
in vigil for another, sudden crows
quiet, a shatter no cry cry
winnows up.
Of course, explain. Of course they’re like us.
Unless we’re like them. And only when
words run and break apart and dissolve air
not even air anymore, breath
a rhythm, a backdrop — wait in wait, what’s
left in us hopeless a long time for
the fallen one to move.
Beauty
at the Hunterian Museum, London
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